by Ison, S. A.
He wiped away the sweat once more from his face and stood over to the side of the road, his back to the forest. The other side of the road was a drop off the low mountain side. He shifted back and forth on his feet, excitement building in him at the thought of getting home and eating a real meal at last.
An old red rusted Ford drove around a hairpin curve, the windshield thick with dust and pollen. Clay could see two men in the front, and there looked to be three or more in the back of the truck. He didn’t care; he would ride on the hood if it meant getting back home. As the truck drew near, it began to slow, and Clay smiled and began to wave his hand, hailing them.
The truck came to a stop about ten yards away and Clay began to walk forward toward them. He was about to tell them how happy he was to see them, when one of the men in the back of the truck bed stood up and aimed a shotgun at him. Clay stopped, frozen, and Brian began to growl, the hair along his back standing stiffly up.
“Boy, whar ya’ll thank’in’ you’urn agoin’?” the man asked. He was greasy looking and dirty.
Clay took in the filthy wifebeater undershirt, the tattoos that covered his chest and arms. He also noticed, even from that distance, that the man sported a large swastika tattoo on his shoulder. The man spat a stream of brown substance to the ground, then jumped down from the truck bed.
Clay’s hand fell, and brushed his weapon, but he didn’t grab it yet. “I’m Officer Patterson, of the Beattyville police department. My cruiser died some ways back, and if it isn’t too much, can ya’ll give me a ride back to town? I’d be much obliged,” Clay called out in a strong voice.
Clay felt as though ants were crawling all over his body, the warning bells screaming “Run, run, run.” His eyes took in everything about the men, and it wasn’t adding up to anything good. So far, the other men remained in the truck. But Clay knew it wouldn’t take a skinny minute for all of them to be out.
All the men in the truck began to laugh, an ugly laugh. The primitive hair prickled along Clay’s body. Clay’s eyes scanned around him quickly. Things were about to go sideways.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Clay was profoundly grateful for his police training. He jerked around and ran into the woods, calling after Brian. Lowering his upper torso by bending at the waist, he ran in a zigzag pattern. The explosion behind him was loud, and his body jerked as leaves and small branches blew up next to him.
He crouched even lower, making himself a smaller target. Brian could be heard running beside him, and he kept running as more gunshots were fired in his directions. When he could, he changed directions, trying to keep the noise down as he went. He hoped they were making more noise than he was.
Brian drew abreast of Clay and then passed him, Clay was running as fast as he could while dodging the low hanging branches and bushes. He was also mindful of rocks and roots. He could hear his pursuers gaining on him.
Another booming shot, this time closer, and he felt the searing hot pain rip through his left shoulder and side. He felt the shot peppering on the back of his vest as well. They had shot him with buckshot; had they been closer, he was sure it would have killed him.
His breathing became hard and labored, and his mouth was as dry as the sand in a heat-scorched desert. All he could hear now was the pounding of his heart and the harsh breath coming from his open mouth. His eyes felt dry as well.
Clay’s dark eyes darted wildly, looking for an escape or hiding place. He heard another shot, and dodged left, then began an uphill run, the adrenaline taking him higher. In some distant part of his brain, he was glad he’d kept up his running since leaving the navy years ago. Though he was tired from walking for days and on little food, his muscle memory kept him upright and moving forward.
He could no longer see Brian ahead of him, and all he could think of was that he was glad they wouldn’t kill his dog. If he could find a good place to settle, he could return fire, but they had kept up with him until now. He could hear their shouts down the hill from him, and then his skin turned cold.
The baying of a hound dog echoed up the mountain. They had a dog, and there was no place to hid from a hound. He had to go to ground and get into a defensive position. It was like a nightmare from a really bad movie, like one he’d seen set in the 50s. This was crazy and surreal; never in his life had he encountered anything remotely this bad.
His body was screaming with pain and he thought his heart would explode. His chest shrieked in agony. He was going deeper and deeper into the dense woods, and the hound behind him was gaining ground. The deep reverberating baying followed him up the mountain, relentless.
He had to stop that hound, because no matter where he hid, it would find him. He hated killing a dog, but those bastards had set it loose on him. He found a large oak, and stopped, hiding behind it, his breath coming in heavy sobbing gasps. The large tree held him up, his body heavy against the rough bark.
His left arm felt dead, but his right arm was whole, and he drew his weapon and waited. He could hear the dog’s progress and eventually saw its shape through the heavy brush. Taking aim, his hand shaking badly, he fired off and missed. Taking a deep breath, he dug deep and calmed himself, took the shot, and heard the dog yelp. He didn’t know if he’d killed it, he hoped he hadn’t, but he’d stopped the dog from coming after him.
He didn’t linger but staggered on, now feeling the effects of the blood loss. His teeth were chattering. He continued to run up and along a deer trail, bouncing off trees and staggering. He could hear the men down the mountain screaming and shooting wildly, but Clay could no longer understand their words. Brian was somewhere ahead of him. He could hear the dog and see motion and movement far ahead, disappearing in and out of the trees and undergrowth.
He was starting to feel queasy, and dark spots floated around the perimeter of his vision. His breaths were coming in harsh gasps now, and his legs began to wobble like drunken rubber bands. His eyes looked for somewhere to hide; he knew he was about to faint, and he didn’t want those bastards to find him unconscious and kill him.
He was slowing now, falling against trees, trying to keep himself upright. His hand grasped desperately at rough bark; deep scratches covered his right hand. His left arm was completely numb and he was beginning to lose feeling in his right.
His head was pounding, and he kept swallowing, trying to keep the acid down in his gut. His eyes were drawn to a small declivity behind a thick sweet bush. He stumbled toward it, the black spots growing and coalescing. With everything left in him, Clay made it to the declivity and crawled in, turning and making sure the bush was still in place, and then everything went black.
Ӝ
Harry and Boggy were in the woods at the back of the farmhouse, stringing fishing line at different heights and attaching empty metal cans with pebbles inside. They also used rusted old cowbells, jingle bells and other noisy items that had been scrounged around the barn. Earl was up in his bed, recuperating from his beating. He was starting to get around better, and they’d managed to straighten out his prosthetic leg.
Willy, Marilyn and Katie were in the garden planting more seeds — squash, zucchini, Kentucky wander beans, pink bush beans, and green peppers. They didn’t have any more tomato seeds, as Willene had planted all she had in the spring. There were thirty tomato plants, covered with blooms and large green tomatoes. Once ripened, they would be canned, and some would be dehydrated.
Harry paused, wiping the sweat from his forehead. The sun was high in the clear cobalt sky and beating down on them, despite the tree’s canopy. He should have brought some water, but he’d figured they’d be in the shade and cooler. How wrong he’d been. He bent to pick up another reel of filament fishing line when he heard a gunshot blast. It was close to the property, if not on it.
He turned and ran toward the house. Boggy exited the woods fifty feet up the hill, likewise heading for the house. The women had also heard, and were acting similarly. Marilyn snatched Monroe up and carried him with her. Harry reached Mari
lyn, took Monroe from her and slung the boy over his shoulder, eliciting a shriek and a giggle from the boy.
“Willy, get upstairs with the AR15 and watch out the windows along the drive and the front of the house. Katie, do you know how to use a gun?” Harry asked.
“No, I don’t, I’m sorry,” she said, looking apologetic.
Harry smiled crookedly, and said, “Don’t worry, we’ll teach you.”
“I’ll take her and Monroe to the basement, and then I’ll get my .38,” Marilyn said.
“Okay. Me and Boggy will head to the woods,” Harry said, and was interrupted by more gunshots, this time closer.
He and Boggy ran out of the house and into the woods, toward another flurry of gunshots. They separated and headed deeper into the forest. Harry could hear a dog baying and turned toward it. He jumped over logs, rocks, and bushes. He grew closer to the gunshots, then heard a dog cry out. He could hear men screaming and cursing, and picked up his pace.
He was heading downhill now, zeroing in on the men’s voices. He brought his Glock up in a ready position and flicked off the safety. He heard the men ahead of him. He found a large rock and placed his body behind it and scanned for the men. There were six of them, five armed with hunting rifles, and one had a shotgun.
“You men, freeze! You’re on my property! Put your weapons down or I will start shooting! Do it now!” Harry shouted in a harsh voice.
The men turned toward him, and one lifted his rifle. Harry shot him, the bullet punching into his chest. The other men fled, leaving their compatriot behind. Harry kept his gun up and walked carefully toward the downed man.
He looked down and saw that the man was dead. Beside him was a dog, a bluetick hound, also dead. He heard movement in the bushes behind him and Harry whirled, bringing his weapon to bear
Boggy jerked down and screamed, “It’s me!”
Harry turned back to the downed man. He was filthy, with greasy thin red hair. He wore camo cargo pants and a filthy polyester golf shirt. His hunting rifle lay beside him.
“Who the hell is he?” Harry asked, looking over at Boggy.
“’spect he’s a KKK boy, look at them thar swastikas tattooed all over his arms an’ the one on his neck. No big loss,” Boggy said, turning and spitting on the ground in disgust.
“Yeah, but what the hell is he doing on my property? He and those other men were clustered around the dog.” Harry turning and narrowed his eyes, scanning. In the distance, he heard a truck revving its engine and then tires squealing away.
“Ain’t no tell’en’, maybe they was huntin’ deer or sommat,” Boggy guessed. He also was looking around in the dense forest, his weapon at the low ready.
Both men turned when they heard something coming through the trees. Both men raised their weapons, but lowered them when a dog came through the trees; it looked like a German Shepherd mix.
Harry patted his leg and called to the dog, who came to him, tail wagging. Harry patted and rubbed the dog’s head, and looked down at the collar. It was a police dog. He looked up at Boggy. “He’s a police dog, and his name is Brian. Were those assholes were trying to kill him? Or his handler?” he wondered aloud.
Harry squatted down. “Hey buddy, where’s your policeman?” The dog tilted his head from side to side and smiled at Harry. Harry laughed and petted the dog.
“I ain’t thank he speaks English,” Boggy laughed and reached over to pet the dog.
The dog then barked and trotted off. Harry looked at Boggy and shrugged, and began to follow the dog. Both men moved through the forest, keeping the dog in their sights. The dog turned, still smiling, and barked. He sat down and his tail wagged.
“Is Timmy in the well?” Harry asked the dog, laughing.
The dog barked again, his tail wagging harder. Harry looked over to Boggy and shrugged, unsure what to do. He looked back at the dog, then looked around the area. His eyes scanned the trees, and bushes. His eyes were drawn to a sweet bush; the tip of a sneaker was peeking out from beneath the vegetation. He walked swiftly over, squatted down and pulled the bush aside. There he found a large, unconscious man in uniform, except for the sneakers.
“Help me, Boggy, this man’s been shot! We need to get him back to the house,” Harry said, waving his friend over.
Boggy came over and bent forward, looking down. “That thar is Clay Patterson, he be a police officer from Beattyville. You’uns thank them thar bad men was a huntin’ him down?”
“It looks like it. Be careful now; you get on one side and I’ll get the other side,” Harry said, and they lifted the unconscious man as gently as they could. Harry whistled for the dog to follow them.
“What ’bout that thar dead feller back thar?” Boggy asked, grunting as he shouldered the weight.
“We’ll get back to that later. Let’s get Officer Patterson to the house and let Katie and Willy look at him,” Harry suggested, grunting as he tried to shoulder the large man.
Both Harry and Boggy were sweating profusely by the time they got to the front yard. Harry called for Katie and Willene, his voice echoing across the yard and bouncing off the house. By the time they made the steps, Willene was coming out the screen door, Katie behind her.
“That’s Clay! What happened?” Katie asked, her voice rising.
Katie held the door open while Harry and Boggy pulled the large man into the house. They laid him down on the living room floor and Harry stepped by to let the women at the unconscious man. Marilyn came down the stairs with Katie’s medical bag and Willene’s emergency first aid kit.
“There was a group of men, we think they may be associated with the KKK; they must have been chasing him and shot him. When I confronted them, one of them made to shoot at me and I killed him before the rest turned and ran away. We heard their truck peel out and I think they are gone,” Harry said, wiping the sweat that was pouring down his heated face.
“Oh my God, what animals these people are!” Katie cried, outraged. “They kill my parents and try to kill this man? This has got to stop.”
Harry could say nothing. She was right, but he didn’t know how to stop these people. He felt so helpless. He just didn’t know what he could do. There were so few of them, and if the mayor and sheriff had taken over the town, Harry was pretty sure they would swell their ranks.
“Come on Boggy, we got a body to bury,” Harry said, and headed to the door. He let the dog in, and watched it go to the downed officer. The dog lay down near the man’s feet, his large brown eyes looking at the women as they worked on the officer.
Harry stepped out on the porch, where he found a breeze had kicked up. He let it cool his face before turning to Boggy. “Let’s go get some water first. I’m thirsty as hell, and it is going to be hot work.”
“That’s the best thang I’ve heared all day, I’m near tuckered out from runnin’ in them thar woods. I ’spect my heart was near ta jumpin’ outta my chest,” Boggy said, wiping his face with a handkerchief.
Harry laughed and smacked Boggy lightly on his shoulders. He saw movement near the kitchen door and saw Monroe’s grinning face. He waved the child back into the house when the boy wanted to follow them. “We gotta do some work, Monroe. Stay in the house, close to your momma,” Harry called to the boy. He waited until the child disappeared into the house. He continued walking until he got to the well. He and Boggy took turns drinking from the dipper, the water cold and sweet.
They each collected a shovel from the barn before heading into the woods again. Harry didn’t plan on digging a deep grave, but they needed to make sure the animals wouldn’t dig the body up either. They would bury the hound with the man and stack some stones on top.
He didn’t like having to bury some stranger on his property, but he didn’t know what else he could do. They had to be extremely careful now about any kind of diseases. Leaving rotting corpses around was never a good idea.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Katie and Willene worked to strip the unconscious Clay, using scissors to c
ut away the clothing. Marilyn brought several lanterns and placed them close to the women. She then pulled the curtains away from the window, allowing as much light into the room as possible.
“Marilyn, can you get some of the hot water off the stove please?” Katie asked, her gloved hands moved quickly.
“I sure can. Let me also get Monroe up to his room to play. I don’t want him pesterin ya’ll,” Marilyn called over her shoulder.
Katie and Willene began to clean the bullet wounds. The one in the abdomen was a through and through and, as far as Katie could tell, nothing vital had been hit, only muscle, no organs, nor major arteries. The one in the shoulder was still in the body. They’d found shotgun pellets peppered on the utility vest. It had taken the brunt of the shot. Overall, Clay had been very, very lucky.
“Let’s pack off the wound in his abdomen. We’ve cleaned it the best we can. We can suture it up after we take care of the shoulder,” Katie said, reaching for quick clot and handing it to Willene.
The abdomen dealt with, they turned Clay carefully onto his stomach. Katie then began to wipe at the shoulder. The blood was oozing out and she wiped it clear once more. She then took a syringe filled with saline and flushed the wound. Putting on an LED headlamp, she bent over the wound.
Taking long thin forceps, she blotted the wound and then inserted the instrument into the body as gently as she could. Willene waited, sterile gauze ready to blot the blood away. Katie moved the probe around until she heard the soft clink of metal on metal. She grinned up at Willene. “I think I have it.”
Holding her breath, she used the forceps to grab onto the slug. She felt the transmitted vibration of metal forceps hitting the metal of the slug and pulled the small slug out of the body. Blood began to well up and out of the wound and Willene pressed down on the wound with the sterile gauze.
Marilyn returned with a bowl of steaming water. She knelt beside Willene and began to take gauze and clean the officer’s back, near his shoulder. Taking the hot water, she rinsed around the wound.
